


Hit the Bricks

by evienne



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen, david whumpage, jack would make the world's worst paramedic, new year's treat :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evienne/pseuds/evienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David really shouldn't walk around alone at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit the Bricks

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be treated at Yuletide in the Broadway category, but David wanted to snark and be very much his movie self, so that didn't work out. And then no Newsies ficcage showed up on Christmas Day and that made me sad and I decided I should finish it anyway. Initially I tagged it with people who requested Newsies, but then I figured that since it totally did not conform to anybody's request, that really probably wasn't terribly appropriate. But do feel free to consider this as an adjunct treat if you wanted some incredibly self-indulgent Newsies hurt/comfort for Christmas!
> 
> [Not mine, not making any money. Gen. :)]

To be honest, ending the day _mugged_ wasn’t exactly the ending David had planned.

He’d been literally two street corners away from home—alone for once, since Les had stayed home that morning with a sore throat, and Jack had gone back to the Lodging House to play poker—when something grabbed him from behind and flung him unceremoniously sideways into a narrow side street. He tried to yell for help, of course, but the large hand smothering his face and cutting off his air and most of his vision wasn’t making it _easy_.

 “Ain’t got Kelly with him,” a voice muttered. “Don’t make no sense. Let him breathe, Kitch, we ain’t wanting him passin’ out yet.”

‘Kitch’ shifted his stifling hands from David’s face to David’s arms. A frantic lungful of air, and then David shouted for help with every ounce of strength in him. A bony fist caught him across the side of the face, sending him stumbling back into Kitch, stars dancing on the brick wall ahead.

“Enough of that,” said the voice, which now sounded a lot like Morris Delancey’s sly drawl. “Where’s Kelly, kid?”

David blinked rapidly. The stars cleared enough for him to see that his attackers numbered five: Morris and Oscar Delancey glaring at each other in frustrated fury, the unseen enormous Kitch behind him, and two others he didn’t recognize waiting at the corner David had been ambushed at.

“Ain’t nobody coming,” one of the unknowns called back, voice hoarse with cigarette smoke. “Don’t think Kelly came with him tonight.”

Oscar growled furiously. “I _tole_ you we shoulda set up near the Lodging House—”

“And have the whole lot of Kelly’s crowd chargin’ out at the first sign of trouble?” Morris threw back scornfully. “You ain’t the brains here, Oscar. So we got unlucky tonight. It ain’t a big deal. Leastways we still got _this_ one.” His eyes, black and calculating, fixed on David, and David was suddenly afraid.

“Think again,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Maybe the newsies aren’t with me now, but they’ll find you tomorrow.”

Oscar sniggered. “I bet they’ll try.”

“Y’see, Dave, we’se leaving town,” Morris explained, smiling unpleasantly. He dug a hand into his trouser pocket. “Uncle Weasel’s got us a place down at Virginia. We’se leavin’ on the first train.” His eyes glittered as he slipped the set of knuckles on his fingers. Kitch tightened his grip on David’s arms, pulling them right back and laying David’s chest and stomach exposed and defenceless. “Jack Kelly and your Brooklyn pals ain’t gonna save you this time.” 

* * *

 

“It’s a penny to buy in,” Race said, shuffling cards so rapidly they blurred in his hands. “Cowboy’s the blind. Hey, it’s only fair,” he added, grinning at the look on Jack’s face. “Our fearless leader’s gotta take the good with the bad, right?”

“Too kind, Race,” Jack said dryly, but slid a hand in his pocket anyway.

Gambling wasn’t technically allowed at the Lodging House, but as long as they kept things quiet and didn’t involve the younger boys, Kloppman generally turned a blind eye. Racetrack had been at the Lodging House for a couple of months longer than Jack, and by then poker night had already become a proud tradition. Race won most of the time, but his rare losses were usually so spectacular that it was still worth a game player’s while to get dealt in.

“C’mon, Jack,” Race said, now impatient as Jack checked another pocket, vainly. “I ain’t gonna deal ’til you fork it out, so stop foolin’ around.” 

“I—” Jack searched the first pocket again, feeling a bit stupid now, “ain’t, actually.”  

“You forget to get your half off Dave?” Blink asked. He looked amused. The rest of the table did, too.

“You’ll never see it again.”

“Can’t trust the Mouth with anything.”

“Bound to have spent it.”   

“On booze.”

“On smokes.”                           

“On that damn cat of his.”

“All right, all right,” Jack said, though he was grinning too. He got up from the table. “It’s okay, Mush,” he added, pushing back the handful of coins Mush had sacrificed from his own pile. “I’ll be back before you know it. Start without me.”

He set off at a brisk pace for David’s, taking all the shortcuts he knew through and over buildings, familiar enough with the trip even in the dark not to have to think about where he was headed. Going soft, he mused; must be, to forget something like that. Not that it exactly mattered when it came to David, who in all likelihood was completely aware that Jack had neglected to ask for his half and was probably planning to present him with his fifty per cent (their selling terms had been renegotiated months ago) in the morning correct down to the last penny with a raised eyebrow and a lecture on gambling. Jack grinned.

There were few people on the streets this late. A small group of greasy-headed thugs passed underneath Jack as he jumped from one rooftop to another, sniggering stupidly about some poor kid they’d beat up and left. Jack thought briefly about following them to teach them a lesson—but five goons that size were good odds against him. One battle at a time.  

Two corners from David’s block of tenements, he rode a waterpipe down to ground level again and almost fell over a body lying face down in the shadow of the wall.

Poor drunk beggar. Jack bent to help him sit more or less upright against the wall where at least he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit, and nearly dropped him again when the moonlight revealed a very familiar striped blue shirt. He sent a horrified confirmatory glance at the face.

“David!” He loosened his suddenly unsteady grip on his friend and turned him over instead, sickly noting the limp loll of his limbs. The poor light disguised most of the bruising and the bleeding, but he could see enough to make his stomach turn. For a few horrible moments, he couldn’t settle his mind enough to convince himself that David was actually breathing, but after his own hoarse breaths quieted a little, he could hear a soft wheezing from David and see the painful contraction of his body after each one. “What the _hell_ have they done to you?” He shook him, not knowing if that was the right thing to do, but unable to just do nothing.“ _Dave_. Come on, dumbass. Don’t you leave me.”

Eventually one of David’s swelling eyes opened a crack, then the other. He blinked at Jack in bewilderment and then mumbled something. Jack, bending close, heard the word _Delancey_.

“I’ll kill them,” he bit out, torn between fury and relief. “I should’ve come back with you. I should—never mind. How badly are you hurt, Dave? Can you move?” 

“I—” David tried to raise himself, but gave up and fell on his side, the effort clearly too much.

“Shut up and don’t be an idiot,” Jack ordered inconsistently, steadying his hand on David’s shoulder and hating that he couldn’t stop it quivering. “I gotta take you back home. I’ll go for your pop—”

David reached out one bloodied hand and grabbed Jack’s sleeve with surprising strength. “Can’t take me home,” he managed. “Mama—scare her to death.” 

“It’s so near, Dave.” The long distance back to the Lodging House was unthinkable. “You could be bleedin’ somewhere, or you could have broken something—”

“Don’t care,” David insisted. “Not home. Can’t afford—hospital.”

And David’s parents certainly would insist on it, whether it would exhaust their already slender resources or not. Jack understood better now. Kloppman was a deft hand at first aid, and could even splint a broken bone at a pinch if a boy couldn’t make up the bill for a doctor’s setting (which was more often than not). David would have an easier time convincing his parents to let him mend on his own if he’d been treated a little first.

“D’you think you could make it?” he asked.

“Got to,” David said, voice grim with determination. “Go tell Papa—I’m with you—and not to worry.”

“Ain’t leaving you. They’ll be all right.”

David’s grip tightened on Jack’s sleeve. “Jack.”

Everything within Jack fought against the thought of leaving David alone like this, but the plea in David’s eyes won. Biting his lip, he squeezed David’s shoulder. It was a reassurance as much for himself as for David. “I’ll be right back.”

Sprinting the few hundred yards left and swinging himself up the two storeys of fire escape took no time, and he was knocking at the Jacobs’ door within a few seconds. The door swung open and Mayer Jacobs looked out at Jack. Behind him, Esther was neatly folding the day’s lacework. They were alone: Les and Sarah must have already gone to bed.

“Jack,” Mayer said with a welcoming smile. “We were just getting worried. Is David with you?”

“No, sir,” Jack said. He hesitated. None of David’s lectures had yet given him a distaste for lying about the headlines or to get himself out of trouble, but it somehow felt different when he was faced with David’s parents, people he liked and who had earned his respect. Over Mayer’s shoulder, he could see Les turning fitfully in his bed. “I guess Skittery’s caught the bad chest that’s goin’ round, sir,” he said glibly. “Dave is showin’ Kloppman how to make somethin’ to soothe his throat. Says you’ve been givin’ it to Les, ma’am,” he said, looking over Mayer’s shoulder at Esther. “Dave says it works wonders. He wanted me to come back here an’ tell you where he was. Might stay the night, dependin’ on how Skittery is.” 

“It must be the tea I make with licorice and honey,” Esther said, all motherly concern. “I hope it does the poor boy good. It’s all right if David stays at the Lodging House tonight, isn’t it, Mayer?” She went into the small kitchen and rummaged in the larder for a moment before returning. “Here, Jack: it’s hard to come by honey these days. Tell Mr Kloppman it’s a present.”

Jack smiled glibly at her as he pocketed the small jar. “Much obliged to you, ma’am. I’ll tell David. Good night, sir.”

He barely waited for the door to close between them before all but jumping the fire escape down. His own throat felt curiously thick. 

David had managed to roll himself into a sort of hunched-over crouch by the time Jack got back to him, whether to shield himself further from inquiring eyes or because that position was somehow more comfortable, Jack had no idea. He knelt down next to his friend and grasped his shoulder, gently.

“You okay, Dave?”

He didn’t reply for a minute and Jack noticed how he was breathing: careful, shallow inhalations followed by careful, shallow exhalations, as though breathing more deeply would hurt. “Been—better,” he said, voice slow as though he was uncertain of his thoughts—which was troubling enough, when it came to David. “Not going to be easy, getting back.” He paused. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jack saw then that David was clutching at his stomach, his shirt and hand there dark with something. “What’s the matter?” he asked, reaching to push David’s hand aside.

“Don’t touch,” David snapped with sudden animation. He winced, shoulders spasming, and then slumped again, as if exhausted by the effort. “I remember—big one, had spiked boots. Not deep, just—bleeding.”

Jack felt himself go cold. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly and with difficulty, David allowed him to pry away his hand and inspect the wound himself. It was about an inch wide, dark blood staining a large ragged-edged shape on his shirt—and Jack drew a relieved breath: he’d seen enough knife wounds to know the color was good news, not the bright red that was likely to just pump itself dry. Those were the deep ones, the ones that killed you quickly.

“Was you gonna tell me about that?” he asked, pulling his neckerchief free and crushing it against the wound. David probably wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death, but the more of the stuff they kept inside him, the better he’d be for it. He kept his palm flat, tried not to push too hard.

David’s breath hissed all the same and he was holding himself rigid, as though fighting off the desire to recoil. “Didn’t know.”

“You’se an idiot.” The neckerchief was stopping the blood from flowing, but Jack couldn’t help David walk and keep staunching the wound. “Can you hold it there?”

David curled a palm gingerly over the top of Jack’s, until Jack removed his and left David holding the cloth down himself.

“You’se gonna have to hold that, while we walk back. Ain’t gonna do you any favors, losing blood.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’m gonna help you up, now. Ready?” At David’s abortive nod, Jack slipped David’s left arm around his shoulder and eased upright, bringing David to his feet. David grunted and his breath came through his teeth in a quiet hiss, but he made no other complaint. They stood unsteadily in the shadow of the wall for a moment, David’s fingers digging into Jack’s shoulder, Jack’s tightly wound into David’s shirt, carefully avoiding the dark stain in the front. “Okay there?”

David nodded, face pale but set. “Let’s go.”

They didn’t so much walk as stagger, like children in a three-legged race, along the lengths of streets and alleys between them and the Lodging House. They said very little while they were moving: David completely occupied with his peculiar shallow breathing and stepping one foot in front of the other, and Jack too busy keeping them both upright to speak other than the occasional warning or encouragement. Speech was reserved for the moments when Jack, noticing that David’s steps were dragging a little heavier, called a halt to lower David to the ground for a minute or two of rest before moving on again.

It was during one of these breaks that David, eyes closed, back set carefully against the pole of a lamp while his hand clutched as ever at his stomach, asked: “What’d you—tell my parents?”

Jack was already too tired to beat about the bush. “Lied through my teeth.”

“Good.”

Jack chuckled a little and then glanced back at David, mood sobering. Here, under the lamplight, the bruises and cuts were far more visible than they’d been in the dark corner. David’s face was mottled with the thickening blood from his nose; both eyes blackened, a dozen knuckleduster-shaped scrapes and slices over his jaw and extending down his neck. The rest of it was hidden by David’s clothing, but Jack was betting he had a chest and stomach to match. He wondered if he really had it in him to kill a guy. Five guys. “Those bastards _._ They really laid into you. You reckon they picked tonight because I wasn’t there?”  

David shrugged and then hunched as though he regretted the movement. “Don’t think so. Oscar—surprised you weren’t with me. Said—leaving town tomorrow.” He paused, like he needed to catch his breath and order his mind. “First train. Tonight—best chance—get their own back.”

“Bastards,” Jack said again, and then because there wasn’t anything else to say, said it once more. He put a hand on David’s shoulder, unable to fathom how he _hadn’t_ beenthere. “It ain’t gonna happen again.”

“They’re leaving,” David pointed out. He sounded annoyed, or maybe it was just fatigue. “So—probably not.”

“Not just them. Anybody. You hear me?”

David rolled his head to the side to look at Jack. Jack thought he might have smiled if he could have worked up the energy. “Okay, Jack.”

They spoke less on the breaks as they went on, and Jack began to space them further and further apart. The thought of reaching home and giving David over to Kloppman’s capable hands was too appealing to put off. The pace and his injuries began to tell on David: he seemed barely conscious sometimes, feet moving through sheer reflex and momentum, his weight increasingly heavy on Jack’s arm. Jack pushed them on nonetheless, always aiming for the next street corner, then the next, and the next after that. By the time the Lodging House was in view, dimly lit from within, he was nearly supporting David entirely, and not far off collapsing in exhaustion himself.

“Just a bit further, Dave,” he gasped in what he hoped was an encouraging voice, and David recovered consciousness enough to give a brief nod.

“Put me—down,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Get Blink, Mush.”

It took David, even exhausted with pain and a long agonising walk, to think of something as simple and sensible as that. Jack settled him down in a limp but mostly upright heap on the ground and staggered off, feet oddly unbalanced by the sudden liberation from David’s weight. As he got nearer the Lodging House, a couple of the younger boys waved at him from where they were hanging out an upstairs window in defiance of lights-out. 

“That you, Cowboy?” one of them called—Ten-Pin, probably, he never seemed to sleep—once they were in earshot. “Sounds like Race is on a losin’ streak down there, he’s yellin’ and swearing up a storm. Better get a move on if you wanna get in on it afore Kloppman hears—”

“Get Kloppman and bring a couple of the boys out here,” Jack ordered breathlessly. “Dave’s hurt.”

He could see Ten-Pin’s mouth open and shut again, but he obediently disappeared from the window along with the other boys without wasting any more time. Jack turned back for David and a few moments later, Racetrack, Blink and Mush were heading their way. 

“What the hell happened?” Race demanded as they caught sight of David. “You okay, Mouth?”

David nodded, and Jack gave him over to Blink and Mush with relief. “Delanceys,” he explained. “They ambushed him. Somebody get Kloppman?”

“Boots is waking him up,” Blink said as they manoeuvred David up the three steps to the doorway. “Where’s this happen?”

“Near David’s,” Jack said. “He didn’t want his ma seeing him like this, and money’s tight. You know.”

They nodded and settled David down on the thin mattress that the kids at the window had fumbled down the stairs to the vestibule in their eagerness to do something to help. Half the Lodging House was awake by now, and hanging over the stairs to watch the show.

“Back to bed, alla yous,” Race said, shooing them away. “Mouth’s hurt, and Kloppman’s helpin’ out. You crowdin’ round ain’t gonna help.”  

As the bulk of the boys reluctantly dissipated, Kloppman made his slow way across the narrow hall to the little group crowded around David.

“What’s all this?” he asked, wrinkled face furrowed further in question.

“Davey here had a run in with the Delanceys,” Blink said. “He’s beat up pretty bad.”

Kloppman stopped in front of David and tutted. “So he is. A nice kid like him. Well, well.” He eased himself down near David and ran his hands over his arms and legs, checking for any obvious breaks. “Seems sound enough.”

“He’s bleeding,” Jack said. “Gut.”

Kloppman’s gnarled fingers probed at the stained neckerchief, still clutched in David’s white-knuckled hands against his stomach. “You walked him far, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “From near his place. Close on four miles.”

Kloppman clicked his tongue as he settled David’s hand back over the wound. “Don’t any of you listen? Much better to leave a hurt boy be and bring help to him. Ah, don’t look like that, lad: it’s done now, and we’ll make the best of it.” Absently patting Jack’s shoulder, he gestured, two-handed, at the other boys. “Mush, get my box. Racetrack, a bucket of water. Two—hot and cold.” He brushed the hair back from David’s forehead, revealing a cut Jack had missed. “We should really take you down to Hudson’s, my boy.”

The Hudson Street Hospital was the nearest one, just a few blocks away. David’s eyes opened briefly and caught Jack’s in mute pleading.

“He won’t go,” Jack said.

“Here’s the box,” Mush said, returning with the case of medical equipment Kloppman kept for the boys: bandages, salves, needles and thread, quack potions. Kloppman searched out a wad of cotton and dropped it in the basin of cold water Race set down beside the mattress. He sprinkled a powder into the basin that turned the water yellow.

“Pot’s on the stove,” Race added.

“He really won’t go to Hudson’s?” Kloppman asked Jack.

Jack shook his head. “His pa’s out of work.”

He remembered why they all loved Kloppman so much when all he said was, “All right,” and got to work. 

* * *

 

David was still a blotchy canvas of pale skin and dark bruises when Kloppman was finally done, but he was at least clean and Kloppman maintained his assessment that nothing had been broken. Jack had his own opinion about that, remembering David's short breaths and the stiff, curled way he'd held himself, but Jack had lived through plenty of broken ribs himself, and David wouldn’t thank him for pointing it out. He’d just have to make sure that David took it easy over the next few weeks. His head was bandaged, the bleached cotton wrapped tightly against the wound there, matching the one plastered across his stomach. He looked like the pictures of Civil War casualties the papes reprinted once in a while—but he was alive and breathing, even sleeping, and that was good enough.

“I’ve done what I can,” Kloppman said, packing his box of dressings away. Blink removed the basins and a moment later Jack could hear the splashing of water as they were emptied outside. “He’ll be sore for days, but that’s no great hardship if that’s the worst of it. Keep him quiet and let him rest. One of you will need to stay up and check on him every hour or so until morning. It’s his head I’m uneasy about. Make sure he wakes up.”

Jack nodded—he’d heard about boys who’d been bashed on the head and fallen asleep to never open their eyes again. “I’ll do it,” he said.

Kloppman eyed him, as though about to point out that Jack probably needed to sleep almost as much as David did, but the look on Jack’s face apparently made him think the better of it. “Fine,” he said. “Call me if he has trouble rousing himself, and we’ll make him go to the hospital, money or not. You know where I am.” He got to his feet, grunting a little as his old joints protested against moving after so long crouching down. ”Off to bed with the rest of you,” he ordered, glancing around at the others. “Oversleep and the papes won’t sell themselves.”  

Race, Blink and Mush all offered to stay up with Jack, but he waved them each of them off. “I’ll call if you’s needed,” he told them, and eventually they peeled away and left Jack to his own mattress, which had been hauled down earlier by somebody—Skittery, Jack seemed to remember, whose throat was in perfect working order if the string of profanities he’d let loose when he’d seen David was any indication—and put next to David’s.

“Just you and me, huh,” he said over the sound of David’s quiet breathing. He got a blanket and threw it over David, pulling the edges down.

“Thought you didn’t tuck in,” David murmured as he finished, and Jack grinned at him.

“Said it didn’t happen to _me_ ,” he retorted. “Don’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Hm.” Not even a word, and it managed to sound skeptical. Only David could be this beat up and still do it. He sounded better, though, breaths coming more normally, voice less twisted by pain.

“You comfortable?”

“Fine for now.”

Jack nodded and lay down on his own mattress, hands behind his head, not bothering with a blanket: the night was warm enough. He heard David shifting and glanced over, to see that David’s eyes were now open, staring at the rafters. There was a strangely sober expression in them. “What?”

David turned his head to look at Jack. “I was just thinking, if Kloppman’s right and my head is hurt badly—”

“You wasn’t supposed to hear that,” Jack said. “And it ain’t.”

“You don’t actually know that,” David pointed out. For once, Jack wished he wasn’t quite so good at making sense. “Just tell my mama and everybody else at home I love them.”

“I think they prob’ly know.” He caught the look on David’s face. “I will, Dave. But I’m not gonna have to.”

“Hope not. Nobody else keeps you in line.” After another moment, he said, “It doesn’t help, you know. You being mad at yourself.”

“I should have been there.”

“Don’t be stupid.” David closed his eyes again as though he was already tired of the argument. “You wouldn’t have made a difference. There were five of them. Even Jack Kelly’s not that good.”

“You ain’t seen him on his best days.”

“Sure, I have.” Abruptly, he was smiling, eyes still shut, and Jack remembered walking down from Pulitzer’s office in the sky together, him a little stunned and not quite taking it in, David smiling like he was now and unable to stop. “Les was the reason why we became newsies, you know. We saw you a few times on the way to school, and Les wouldn’t be able to stop talking about you for hours afterwards. After Papa got hurt, he made me promise I’d try selling papes first.”

“There’s good stuff in that kid.” 

“I always thought you were a bit of an idiot,” David said, and added thoughtfully, “still do, really.” 

Jack aimed a lazy retaliatory slap, remembered himself before it landed, and settled for merely saying, “I notice you can stand it.”

David’s smile broadened and then softened, affectionately. “I think I’d be able to stand a lot more, if it meant you for a friend.”    

Jack made a show of prising open David’s eye with a finger and thumb and inspecting it, not that he would really have the faintest notion what to look for. “That crack on the head soften your brain, Dave?”

David batted him away with something like a chuckle. It ended with the inevitable wince, but he was still smiling when it was over. “Probably,” he said. “Shut up, Jack. I want to sleep.”

And Jack, grinning, let him. 

* * *

 

After a night of fitful dozing and waking David up briefly whenever he judged about an hour had gone by, Jack awoke to Race’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently into consciousness. He probably had David’s sore head to thank for it: Racetrack’s morning manner was rarely anything but cranky and in desperate need of tobacco. Jack sat up in a moment, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Yeah, what?” He could see that it was past dawn: even with all the lamps out, there was enough light coming through the windows for him to make out Race’s face, and Blink and Mush standing to one side. 

“Couple of us ran down to Brooklyn before light,” Race explained, stepping aside to exhibit a handful of boys waiting beyond the open doorway to the street. Jack blinked out at them and recognized them all as Spot’s: big dockside boys, apparently unarmed but no less formidable for that. Spot himself appeared next to Race and looked down at David, who seemed particularly small and bruised up in the pale morning light, the bandage round his head stark white and blood-red against his matted brown curls.

“Ain’t right,” he said simply. His steel-grey eyes shifted across to Jack, gleaming in the dimness. “First train leaves in half an hour, Jacky-boy. What’s say we gives the Delanceys a little going away surprise?”

Jack couldn’t help but grin. David continued to sleep soundly, not that Jack needed him awake to know how appalled he would be at being the cause of any kind of violence. Neither did he need anybody to tell him that dealing with the Delancey brothers was _exactly_ what he wanted to clear his own head. He got to his feet and shook hands with Spot: a greeting and thanks both. “I get the first shot,” he warned him. “Both of ’em.”

Spot cracked his knuckles and gave a wicked grin. “Leave a piece for Brooklyn.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The author does not recommend vengeful violence as a solution to all one's problems, but then again, I'm not Jack Kelly. :) (And thank you to chiana606 for making David-has-a-cat A Thing.) Happy New Year!


End file.
